


cadenza

by thebetterbina



Series: accompagnato [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, and harry is the child prodigy violinist, this time tom is the demon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22950958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebetterbina/pseuds/thebetterbina
Summary: An accident.They tell him it will take rehabilitation, his legs will be fine, but his fingers—all the people at the hospital have heard of who he is—They get nervous talking about his fingers.The doctors tell him he got lucky coming out of it with his life.Harry breaks—screamsat them—there’s no life without his violin.Harry is a violinist, Tom is the demon he sells his soul to.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Series: accompagnato [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649857
Comments: 13
Kudos: 275





	cadenza

**Author's Note:**

> beta done by my wife, [liz ♡](https://twitter.com/lizardayo)
> 
> full disclosure: i know nothing about classical music. i am here exclusively (and only) to make horny aus. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Harry remembers the first time he heard his mother playing the piano.

It was a warm-up piece before a student was to arrive, he remembers her dancing fingertips across the white and black keys—her serene smile humming along to the tune. It was the first time he’d seen her play, and for a four-year-old, it was surprising to hear such a lovely sound coming from the mysterious object that always sat in a corner of their home, covered and never used up to that point.

From then on he'd always begged for a song, it didn’t matter if it was morning, noon or night—he’d caused enough of a fuss that Lily caved in and got a speaker, allowing the symphonies of Mozart to fill their house. His dad used to make jokes about Harry secretly being a child prodigy, but Harry doesn’t think so. He liked the sound of the piano, enjoyed ( _ really _ enjoyed) playing with his mum, but Harry doesn’t think he loved it.

Then he hears it for the first time—a solo violinist, performing on their television.

The violin practically  _ sings _ to him.

His new obsession is something his parents clue into, and with James owning a well-known music store it’s a recipe for trouble. Violinists in their area joke about the little menace, tiny Harry who has an ear out for any customer that comes in with a violin in mind—he has absolutely no shame asking for a song, and on the best days, he gets to hear a lovely piece in person. 

Harry thinks he’s lucky too—their family lives comfortably enough that when Lily suggests violin lessons, James has Harry booked into a class with a retired widow, Mrs Figg, who used to play in an orchestra and is a popular teacher by demand. 

Harry comes to  _ love  _ his classes with Mrs Figg. They start off being once a week, but Mrs Figg is sharp to point out to James and Lily that Harry has an ear for it—so they up it to three times a week because there doesn’t go a minute that Harry  _ isn’t _ talking about his amazing violin lessons and all the new things he’s learning. He still keeps up his piano lessons with Lily, so there really doesn’t go a day the Potter household isn't filled with some kind of music.

* * *

At age six, Harry composes his first piano sonata.

* * *

Nine, he writes a concerto for violin and orchestra.

* * *

Ten he writes his first full-length opera,  _ Cinderella _ .

* * *

Harry makes his official debut at fifteen, and there isn’t anyone in the music world who hasn’t heard of the rising child-prodigy violinist.

* * *

Just before his eighteenth birthday, Harry wakes up to the sterile white walls of the ER. Lily cries as he struggles to blink his eyes open, James looks like he hasn’t slept in weeks and—

—and Harry can’t feel his hands.

* * *

An accident.

They tell him it will take rehabilitation, his legs will be fine, but his fingers—all the people at the hospital have heard of who he is—

They get nervous talking about his fingers.

The doctors tell him he got lucky coming out of it with his life.

Harry breaks— _ screams _ at them—there’s no life without his violin.

* * *

The weeks to come he pushes everyone away, his friends and family alike. If they aren’t turned away by his dead silence, they are by his fits of anger—fierce rage he takes out on anyone who just happens to be on the unfortunate receiving end. 

Most of his friends have stopped visiting him because of it. Lily is the only one who comes by every day. She tries to put on a smile each time, but he can tell she’s also going to collapse sometime soon. She talks about the weather, what everyone is up to, talks about his fans sending love and prayers his way.

But what good was a God that allowed that kind of accident to happen anyway?

* * *

The pain wakes him up frequently. 

Harry jerks awake from sleep to a dark room, blinking back tears and willing away the stabbing torture he feels. He can’t tell what he hates more—the empty numbness or the pinprick agony. 

“It hurts, doesn’t it?”

The unfamiliar voice makes him flinch, causing more pain he ends up hissing at. He cranes his head to blink blearily at the source of the voice, eyes trying to focus on the figure in the dark, shrouded by the night—the strip of moonlight only illuminating the shadowed body casually lounging in the chair. He hears the soft clink of ice, can see the glass held loosely in a single, lean hand. 

“W—who are you.” 

His own voice sounds strange, dry and hoarse. As far as Harry knows it’s still dark out, not yet visiting hours, and no doctors wore suits like that around the hospital.

But Harry isn’t blind, through the darkness he still notices the slitted bright red eyes, watching, observing. Under the stranger’s stare, Harry feels  _ tiny _ . 

“Enemy to some, friend to others. I wonder what I’ll be to you.”

A part of Harry wonders if this weirdo is a stalker, or a murderer coming to kill him—but, he thinks, he doesn’t particularly  _ care _ . He wouldn't mind being killed, would honestly thank the man after the deed was done if that were possible. 

“Silly child, I’m not here to kill you. I’m here to … offer help.”

Harry wants to scoff, but the most that comes out is a weak huff.

“I understand, seeing is only believing after all—let’s do this instead, one week. One week and I’ll come back to collect payment.” 

Harry floats back to the black embrace of sleep.

* * *

A miracle, they tell Harry, they call it a miracle. 

Harry plays  _ Paganini _ on the main floor of the hospital, to a crying Lily who has James over the phone in tears too. 

* * *

The week is perfect, his body has been completely healed. A  _ miracle _ . The surgeon who’d performed on him swears it could only be a work of God. 

God. 

It wasn’t God that visited him, and he knows it won’t be God visiting him tonight.

* * *

Tom, the thing calls himself  _ Tom _ . 

It’s such a simple name Harry actually finds himself giggling over it, the thing compliments his smile and Harry finds himself reddening in response. There is fear there, somewhere, under all the giddiness of his fingers turning to him—but Harry is everything including human, and any human would blush in front a demon that comes to you in a perfect face and charming smile.

Sometimes the devil isn’t red horned and evil, sometimes he is your best dream.

* * *

“I want to make a deal with you Harry.”

“I’ll take it.”

“...”   
  
“I don’t care what your terms are. I’ll take it. Just let me keep playing.”

* * *

The suit is uncomfortable, Harry thinks if he had the choice he’d rather perform in pyjamas. Tom finds the thought funny enough to chuckle, smoothing down a stray strand of hair sticking out haphazardly from the nest his mother had tried to tame. 

“You could do it. No one would stop you.”

His eighteenth birthday. Harry wanted a solo performance for his eighteenth birthday. He’s been told the tickets sold out within the first five minutes, a new record for the concert hall. Harry swats Tom’s hand away, moving to muss up his hair in that familiar tangle which earns an annoyed frown from Tom.

“No.  _ You _ wouldn’t let anyone stop me.”

There is fondness there, somewhere, when Tom smiles—and he can look surprisingly gentle when he wants to. Even now, Harry isn’t sure what the exact details of their deal is, he isn’t sure he cares to find out, but he at least knows Tom will never let any harm come to him.

“Before I forget, I have a present for the birthday boy.”

Tom pulls the box seemingly from thin air, but Harry isn’t stunned by the show of magic anymore—he reaches his arms out, allowing Tom to gently place it in his hands. Harry realizes that it isn't a box, it's a case of some kind. It looks old, blocky, but with beautiful intricate linings along the outside. He allows his fingers to run along them, curiosity getting the better of him and setting it down on a nearby bench to open the clasps properly and—

—Harry is greeted with quite possibly the most beautiful violin he’s ever seen. She’s  _ lovely _ , with a finished varnish that makes her shimmer under the light.

“Take a peek inside.”

Harry  _ did _ at least expect it to be a violin; Tom, he learned, enjoys the music Harry plays, and he knows it was one of the reasons why Harry had been approached in the first place.  _ A shame to lose such magnificent talent. _

Harry leans in closer to read the label along the inside.

_ Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis _ _  
_ _ Faciebat Anno 1704 _

Violently, he jerks back, eyes wide with shock and head whipping to Tom who has the most smug smile on his face.

“This can’t—you’re kidding—”

“Harry, you can’t possibly believe I’d lie to you.”

“But Tom—this—is this a—”

“Her name is  _ Sleeping Beauty _ , one of the few Stradivari violins to have retained its original neck. I thought it would be a nice gift—”

Harry doesn’t hesitate to throw himself at Tom, wrapping his arms tightly around the older man who goes quiet at the sudden action. He feels trailing fingertips just behind his back, before the hug is returned. 

“Thank you.”

* * *

“There you are Tom, goodness I was wondering if you’d show.”

Lily frets beside him, and Tom offers a reassuring smile when he says, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

The concert hall settles to a low murmur before pin-drop silence falls, and all attention is on Harry as his bow touches the strings. He can already hear James’ confusion at the violin he holds, it’s not the one he’d gifted Harry for his first debut. 

The Stradivarius holds up to its name, the sound projected is unparalleled to any violin crafted in the modern era. There’s a sweetness in the way the piece is played, and even with his eyes closed, Harry plays the jagged chords and unease with an emotional perfection that grips the listener in a vice, refusing to let go until you're consumed by the passion. 

_ Ah _ , Tom thinks,  _ perhaps this is why I like the boy. _

For fifteen minutes there is nothing but the sound of the lilting violin that dances, and the Bach piece culminates in resolution—a drawn-out kind of triumphant joy, cheeky in a way that only Tom can identify. 

He says to Tom,  _ look at me, I am perfection on this stage _ . 

_ This is where I  _ **_belong_ ** _. _

Harry’s smile is bright, and the standing ovation he receives is well-deserved, but he only has eyes for one person in the crowd, and what is Tom if not everything including indulgent of his favourite boy. 

_I see you_ , Tom says, _and_ _you are mine._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm active [on my Twitter](https://twitter.com/therealconnor60)! (´,,•ω•,,)♡
> 
> i fully intend to make a horny part two don't worry


End file.
